


We Live For Love

by gotham_ruaidh



Series: Gotham Writes for Imagine Claire & Jamie [63]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:30:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9580733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotham_ruaidh/pseuds/gotham_ruaidh
Summary: Jamie Fraser and Claire Beauchamp, guitarist and singer, work toward rock and roll stardom in 1981 New York City. Related ficlets written for Imagine Claire & Jamie on tumblr





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at [Imagine Claire & Jamie](http://imagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com/post/156804581629/i-would-love-to-read-something-where-jamie-walks) on tumblr

The damn phone was ringing again. Shrill in his ears with the sound of what could only be bad news.

But he couldn’t afford an answering machine, and was just about broke. So he reached over the side of the bed, fumbling in the dark for the receiver, spilling a pile of records to the floor.

“Hello?” he croaked, voice raspy with sleep and cigarettes.

“Oh good, you’re awake. What are you up to tonight?”

He rubbed his face with his free hand. “It’s six AM, Ian. What the hell?”

“I’m still out with Murtagh – he said he’s got a lead on a singer looking for a band. You in?”

*That* woke him up. Ian – his best friend and the finest damn drummer on the face of the earth – and Jamie had parted ways with their most recent band two months before. Creative differences, or whatever. They had picked up random session work here and there, but nothing steady since then. And it was damn hard to survive – even in Alphabet City where you crawled over junkies sprawled out on the sidewalk and dodged homeless ‘Nam vets panhandling on every corner just to get to the front door every night – when they both could only bring home a few dollars a week.

“Who’s the singer? Do you know him?”

The long blare of a siren wailed through the receiver.

“Are you on the street, Ian? Do I need to meet you somewhere?”

“No, it’s OK!” he shouted into the mouthpiece. “We can audition tomorrow. But the singer will be performing at Murtagh’s club tonight – 9:30. I promised Jenny I’d go with her to see that new Evita musical in the theater district – she said the orchestra may need a backup backup drummer…”

“OK, OK. I’ll do it. 9:30? Are you even coming back today?” Jamie slowly sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. Frowning at the plastic bag caught in the tree branch right outside his window.

“One more place with Murtagh, then straight to Jenny’s. I’ll say you send your love! And I’ll tell Murtagh we’re in. Gotta go!”

A click – then the dialtone.

Jamie carefully set down the receiver and then reached down for the neck of his guitar. He hoisted it to his knees, idly strumming. Thinking.

—

9:45 PM found Jamie Fraser half-way through his pack of cigarettes, sliding down the slippery vinyl bench that lined the walls of Murtagh FitzGibbon’s half-cabaret, half-comedy club where a few careers had been launched – and where many bright dreams had faded.

But Murtagh had taken a chance on Jamie and Ian, hooking them up with the MacKenzie brothers the previous year. It was a good gig while it lasted, but Rupert had let the bit of fame they’d garnered (if touring small theaters in Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire college towns could be considered “fame”) go to his head. He and his twin brother Angus – singer and bassist, respectively – hadn’t let Jamie contribute any of his own songs to the setlist. They wanted to go bigger, while Jamie and Ian wanted to get smarter.

So here he was, back in Murtagh’s club. At least he wasn’t paying him to find a new gig – not like he could have given him any money, anyway.

If things got really bad, he and Ian could always move in with Jenny – Jamie’s sister, and Ian’s fiancée. She had what their parents considered to be a “respectable” job, working as a bookkeeper at St. Vincent’s Hospital. She could always help him find work there, if push came to shove – and it would be a steady income, to be sure.

But Jamie knew he wasn’t cut out for that kind of work. He was creative – had always doodled drawings or written ditties on the piano and guitar from a young age. Mom and Dad didn’t quite understand it, but they supported it.

And this new singer – this potential ticket to a new chapter in his life – was late.

All Murtagh had said in the fifteen seconds they’d had to chat was that the singer would be on after the one-handed French juggler, of all things. And Claudel had just bowed to finish his act.

Jamie sipped the whisky he’d been nursing all night, tapping the heel of his boots impatiently. Watching the small woman with a riot of curly hair set up a stool behind the microphone at center stage. She had to be new – one of the many helpers who dreamed of the spotlight.

But then to his astonishment, she turned around, smiled confidently at the crowd, and climbed onto the stool.

The houselights dimmed, and the spotlight illuminated her gorgeous, creamy skin. She wore a short black dress, black stockings, and black heels.

And a dazzling smile.

“I’m Claire Beauchamp. And tonight I’ll be singing some of my favorites from Sondheim, Rodgers and Hammerstein, and Cole Porter.”

Show tunes? He had dragged his ass all the way to the Upper East Side for a woman who sang show tunes? What kind of joke was Murtagh playing on him?

Then Claire Beauchamp nodded at Ned Gowan – perched, as he had been for over twenty years, behind the piano at stage left.

And she began to sing.

And Jamie Fraser was mesmerized.

—

That voice. That *voice.* Beautiful and rich and pure. Expressive – evocative – honest. Joyous and sorrowful and a thousand emotions in between.

It spoke to him. Burrowed deep inside his ribs. Burst forth in a racing heart.

His fingers unconsciously curled to hold the invisible frets and strings of his acoustic guitar – itching to write.

Who was she? Why was she here?

And why did she want a guitarist?

He’d played some jazz music in high school, and could pluck out any tune on the piano – but he knew almost next to nothing about the music with which she was clearly so familiar.

But for that voice – he’d try anything.

—

Her set was exactly twenty minutes. As soon as she’d bowed to the tepid applause in the room and made her way backstage, Jamie found his feet following her. He’d played this club often enough to know the quickest way to large room where all the acts got ready. He dodged a man wearing an enormous sombrero, followed by a woman in a gorgeous, colorful dress clutching two maracas, and turned the corner to the prep room.

A long mirror hung on one side, and an equally long line of director’s chairs packed with men and women adjusting their hair and makeup huddled to one side. Coats and boots and props piled randomly on the other side of the room – and there she was, alone, winding a long scarf around her neck.

“Excuse me? Miss Beauchamp?”

She looked up, startled, and somehow he stood right in front of her. God, she had to be a foot shorter than him. She wore barely any makeup – so different and refreshing from the typical woman who performed here. And bravely met his eyes. Waiting.

“I’m Jamie Fraser.”

Realization dawned. “The guitar player? Murtagh didn’t let me know you’d be here tonight.”

“I like doing my research. I didn’t last time, and it came back to bite me in the ass.”

She broke his gaze to shrug into her blue peacoat. “Well then. And what did your research find tonight?”

“Why do you want a guitar player?” he blurted. “Ian – my drummer – and I, we don’t do show tunes. Or jazz, or lounge music, or whatever else seems to be in your repertoire.”

“Well that’s good, then.” She buttoned up her coat and shoved her hands in her pockets, chin tilted up a bit. Defiant. “Because I don’t want to do this kind of music anymore.”

Jamie waited, brows raised.

“Well, what *do* you want?”

“I want to be a rock and roll singer. And I want you to help me.”

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it – but thankfully didn’t.

“A rock singer? No offense, but have you ever sang that kind of music before?”

“Are you telling me I can’t do it?” She straightened up a bit, eyes narrowed. “Because I’ve heard that one before. And I’ve ignored every single person who told me I couldn’t. It got me here to New York, it got me here to The Broch tonight. And it got you to come backstage to find me.”

He flushed, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m not – I’m sorry if you took it that way. Only – you have such a beautiful voice. It’s just surprising, is all. Rock isn’t beautiful – it’s tough. Raw. And it isn’t always sunshine and rainbows.”

“Well, I’m tough,” she countered, voice steely and fierce.” I’ve been through a lot more than you think. And believe me, I know that happy endings only happen in the musicals.”

She looked away for a moment – but not from shyness. Clearly gathering her thoughts.

He wanted to reach out and caress her face – right there, where her cheek met her jaw.

Then clenched his hand into a fist. What the hell was she doing to him?

“But it’s what I want,” she continued. “I’ve sacrificed so much for this. Murtagh says you’re the best guitarist and songwriter he’s found in a long time. And I need a musical partner – like Page to Plant, or Keith to Mick. I need someone I can work with, and rely on, and who can push me to be the singer I’ve always wanted to be.”

She pressed her lips, suddenly shy.

“Are you willing to do that?”

Jamie’s whole world tilted.

“Yes.” His voice was clear, strong, confident. It was the easiest decision he’d ever made.

Then she smiled at him, and he forgot all the other people in the crowded room.

“Good. I’ve got a rehearsal space down on the Bowery – can you be there at ten in the morning?” She pulled a card and pen from her purse and scribbled the address. He must have nodded because the next thing he knew she had wished him goodbye and slid past him – and he cradled the card in the palm of his hand, realizing he had no idea what the hell he was doing.

* * *

Stephen Sondheim, “Send In The Clowns”: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oI_nLz-rciA](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DoI_nLz-rciA&t=MTJhYzM1NDA5NTlkZDRkMWFiMGY1ZmFlMmNiMGU3ZjY0MmFjMTU3Niw3b2tCZEh2OA%3D%3D&b=t%3A3P1iDiJS-o_zACFmLNnnBQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fimagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156804581629%2Fi-would-love-to-read-something-where-jamie-walks&m=1)  


Rodgers & Hammerstein, “You’ll Never Walk Alone”: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9DBTLN73TXE](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D9DBTLN73TXE&t=ZjU4Y2Y2NjE0NDU3MzAxZjE3ZWE1YzkyMjA3OTdkNjhjNGNlZWRlNiw3b2tCZEh2OA%3D%3D&b=t%3A3P1iDiJS-o_zACFmLNnnBQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fimagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156804581629%2Fi-would-love-to-read-something-where-jamie-walks&m=1)  


Cole Porter, “De Lovely”: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txBnEh-SpGg](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DtxBnEh-SpGg&t=OTI3ZjFjYjQzYTQzMGMyYzcyNzJjMzk2NTk1ZWQ4YWJkZjRmYzZjOSw3b2tCZEh2OA%3D%3D&b=t%3A3P1iDiJS-o_zACFmLNnnBQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fimagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156804581629%2Fi-would-love-to-read-something-where-jamie-walks&m=1)  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted at [Imagine Claire & Jamie](http://imagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com/post/156981002892/how-about-jamie-and-claire-take-manhattan) on tumblr

Two hours into their first rehearsal, Jamie Fraser asked Claire Beauchamp for a break.

Ever since he had shuffled out of The Broch and shrugged his shoulders against the cold wind pushing toward the East River, heading to catch the IRT back downtown, his mind had been swirling.

At this time yesterday he had been ironing his jeans, dreaming of taking the stage at Madison Square Garden. Standing by the side of some faceless frontman whose wails matched those of his guitar.

Now he was sweating in a third-floor room of a run-down factory, in between the flophouses and Chinese restaurants which reminded him why he always steered clear of the Bowery, praying the electricity wouldn’t fry his only amp – and trying for the life of him to figure out how to coax Claire into sounding like a rock and roll star.

Claire looked from Jamie to Ian – sweating behind his drum kit – to Willie Coulter, another guy from The Broch who Ian had quickly pressed into service as a bassist.

“Sure – I don’t mind if you guys smoke. But I could use some lunch.”

Willie set down his bass and Ian stood, stretching. “Want us to bring you something? I gotta take a walk.”

“The Chinese place two doors down has good lo mein. I’ll pay you back.”

“Get me one, too?” Jamie met Ian’s eyes in silent understanding. “And a Coke?”

“Sure.” Willie nodded, and soon his and Ian’s footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

Jamie shifted his guitar and turned to face Claire. She was perched on a high stool – just like she had been last night – pursing her lips.

“Look – you got a gorgeous voice, Claire.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming,” she sighed.

He licked his lips. “But you can’t just sing like you’re on a Broadway stage, or in a cabaret. Your voice is too thin above the music that way. It’ll get lost. And you *can’t* get overpowered by the music.”

“I’m not overpowered – ”

“It’s not *you,* Claire!” He stepped a bit closer to her, feeling the ancient floorboards give a little. “Nothing is about you. It’s your *voice.* It’s about how you present your voice – it’s about your attitude. You have to really *feel* what the song is. To really *feel* the instruments – the rumble of the bass, the thump of the drums.”

She stood then, holding her ground. “I don’t want to yell or scream. I can’t lose my voice.”

“You won’t,” he promised. “I won’t let you. Look – you brought me here to help you. Let me help you.”

His eyes searched for hers, pleading. Willing her to understand what he was saying.

Wanting more than anything to establish that connection.

He launched into the opening riff of Blondie’s “Call Me” – the song they’d picked as the first to rehearse.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,” he counted, watching her. “One more! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight – GO!”

“Color me your color, baby, color me your car,” she sang. “Color me your – ”

Abruptly he stopped. “No, Claire – no. You can’t just sway into it – it’s not supposed to be a smooth transition from note to note. That’s not how Debbie Harry does it – that’s not how you’ll do it. Make it choppier. Again.”

She frowned, nodded. Wanting to argue back – but willing to learn. Open to his advice.

Four bars – sixteen beats for the intro. He nodded her cue.

“Color me your color, baby – ”

Again he stopped. “No, Claire. Too much. Too choppy.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Show me, then.”

“You’ve got to remember that this is a song about a gigolo, Claire. It’s not a nice topic. Put yourself in his shoes. ‘Color me your color, baby…’”

Then she tried it again.

“Closer. Getting there. You have to just let it out, Claire. Forget every fucking thing your fancy voice coaches ever taught you. Push yourself into it. Let that beautiful voice just GO.”

She looked like she wanted to say something – but then thought again. Steeled herself.

Holy God, she was a warrior.

He plucked the opening chords again – and then –

Magic.

Her gorgeous soprano floated aggressively over his raw guitar. Ethereal.

“Keep going!” he yelled over the chord progression between the chorus and next verse. “You got this. Keep going!”

She smiled triumphantly. So radiant. And drew from some spirit dwelling deep within her, and sang her heart out.

“Come up off your color chart – I know where you’re coming from – Call me!”

“Call me!” Jamie echoed the backing vocal.

“On the line, call me, call me any, anytime. Call me!”

Her eyes locked with his.

“Call me!”

It happened then – a connection sparking between them. In an instant, he recognized himself in her. Saw his future in her.

“My love, you can call me any day or night. Call me!”

And from the stunned look in her eyes, she did as well.

They finished the song, transfixed in each other.

Shaking with adrenaline.

And woke to the enthusiastic whoops and whistles of Ian and Willie, arms weighed down with paper bags full of egg rolls and lo mein and fortune cookies.

—

By three o’clock they’d nailed down not just “Call Me,” but also a fun, rollicking version of John Cougar Mellencamp’s “I Need A Lover.” A more traditional rock song, but with much different timing and tempos than Blondie.

It wasn’t too difficult for Willie or Ian – but Claire was clearly exhausted. She was too stubborn to admit it, but the last thing Jamie wanted was for her to truly blow out her voice on their first day.

“Hey – let’s call it a day?” he suggested after they’d finished yet another run-through, watching Claire quietly lean against the stool for support. She had been on her feet since they’d finished lunch – rocking and lunging and strutting as she sang. Her voice – and, more importantly, her confidence – seemed to grow stronger and stronger with each song.

But there was such a thing as too much practice. And Jamie desperately wanted to get some time alone with her.

“Yeah, fine by me,” she agreed, bending over to take a sip from her Coke. “You guys OK with that? Will you be ready for Murtagh to visit in the morning?”

“Not a problem.” Willie was already packing up his bass, and Ian reached for the bag where he kept his drumsticks. “You OK, Claire? Want me to walk you to the subway?”

“We’re going to stay back a bit,” Jamie interrupted, slipping his guitar off his shoulder and nonchalantly unplugging his amp. “Want to pick another song for tomorrow. Three is always better than two.”

He turned back to Claire, who had climbed back up on the stool, watching the three men put away their instruments.

“I want to thank all of you,” she said quietly. Voice strong, but a bit subdued. Awed.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Claire,” Ian smiled back. “We’re happy to – ”

“With respect, Ian,” she interrupted, “You don’t understand. This is – I’ve waited for this day for so long. It’s a dream I’ve risked a lot for. And you’re helping make that dream come true. So thank you.”

Willie picked up his case and softly crossed the room to gently lay a hand on Claire’s shoulder.

“We’re not done yet – tomorrow’s another day.”

She smiled at him – suddenly looking so tired. “Indeed it is. See you here at ten sharp?”

Ian shrugged into his backpack, clapped Jamie on the shoulder, and once again the drummer and bassist for their still-unnamed band slipped out of the rehearsal space.

Jamie knelt to close his guitar case, then stood to face Claire.

How to keep her by his side now, for even a few more minutes? How to extend this indescribable, incredible day?

“You want to get a drink somewhere?” he heard himself say.

This time when she smiled, it went all the way to her eyes.

God, she was beautiful.

“Definitely.”

—–

Blondie, “Call Me”:

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=StKVS0eI85I](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DStKVS0eI85I&t=YjRlZjk0YjBhNTAxZDFhNzE3NTdlN2RmM2M3OTc2NWViMTEyY2FjMSxpMVM5aGRCUQ%3D%3D&b=t%3A3P1iDiJS-o_zACFmLNnnBQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fimagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156981002892%2Fhow-about-jamie-and-claire-take-manhattan&m=1)

 

John Mellencamp, “I Need A Lover”:

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGPP2PbayJc](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DuGPP2PbayJc&t=NzZjOWUzMjlkYTA3N2M1MDdjNGM1OGVlODgyZjQ0MTJmZDNhMDQzNCxpMVM5aGRCUQ%3D%3D&b=t%3A3P1iDiJS-o_zACFmLNnnBQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fimagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156981002892%2Fhow-about-jamie-and-claire-take-manhattan&m=1)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted at [Imagine Claire & Jamie](http://imagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com/post/157360505154/jamie-had-many-talents-and-interests-what-would) on tumblr

Four o’clock found them at a social club in Little Italy. One of the owners also happened to be Claire’s landlord – Jamie had been skeptical when she’d approached the door, but as soon as they entered she’d been welcomed like one of the family.

So now they sat in the back of the main room, watching a group of middle-aged men play cards and smoke cigarettes and speak occasionally to one of the constant stream of younger men who passed through the door, wanting to have a word or lay a fat envelope on the table.

“Good day today,” Jamie said after a while, idly swirling the dregs of his Jack Daniels in the small glass.

Claire sat beside him, so that together they faced the room. She didn’t speak, but he knew she had heard him.

“I knew it would be hard,” she replied after a while. “But after today, I realize just how much I don’t know.”

“That’s OK. You’re new at this. You’re not expected to know everything right away.”

“But if I want to be successful, Jamie – I *have* to know it right away.” She finished her vodka soda and turned to face him, eyes bright with a heady mix of anxiety and alcohol. “I don’t want to be a novelty act – I want to be respected. I want to be admired. I want people to look past the fact that I wear a skirt and see me for who I am.”

Her eyes watered – he couldn’t tell if it was from feeling or from the drinks. Desperately he wanted to reassure her – but she wasn’t a woman to be reassured. She needed to hear the truth, and as often as possible.

“It’ll be damn hard, Claire.” He held her gaze, trying to give her strength. “There aren’t many women like you – Debbie Harry, sure, and Chrissie Hynde. Maybe Patti Smith. But nobody’s doing what you want to. You won’t fit into anyone’s box.”

“I don’t want to,” she whispered. “I never have.”

Had she been any other woman – or girl – he would have laid his hand on top of hers.

But Claire Beauchamp was different. She deserved more. She deserved better.

“Do you trust me?” he whispered. “Do you trust me to help you in whatever way I can?”

“You haven’t steered me wrong yet,” she half-smiled. “And you helped me find my voice. I’ve been looking for it ever since I decided to do this – I knew it was in me, somewhere. But I couldn’t ever really find it.”

Sensing an opening, he waved to get the bartender’s attention, gesturing for another round.

“How long have you been working at this?”

She picked up two peanuts from the dish between them, waiting for their glasses to be cleared away and fresh drinks set on the sticky vinyl tablecloth.

“About a year now. Ever since I decided to divorce my husband.”

Well then. She had opened the door – but he didn’t want to step through it.

Respecting her.

“I’m sorry.” He took a sip of bourbon. “That it didn’t work out with him, I mean.”

“I’m not.” She squeezed the lime wedge into her vodka soda and stirred it with the paper straw. “I married him when I was nineteen. We argued for most of the seven years before I decided it was over. I sang in the church choir, and then in some small clubs. He didn’t like it. I had bigger dreams than he wanted me to have.”

So she was twenty seven. And here he was at twenty three – giving *her* advice.

How to respond when someone tells you something so private? Better to play it safe.

“Why rock music?”

She looked down at the glass held between her hands. “Why not? I’ve already walked away from everything. What do I have to lose?”

The card table exploded in laughter.

Jamie nudged her knee under the table, and waited for her to look up at him.

“What do you want, Claire? What would make you happy?”

She thought a long, long time before answering.

“To prove to myself that I can do it. That I have what it takes. And I’ll never let anyone else tell me what to do, ever again.”

He lifted his glass to softly clink against hers.

“Then I’ll do whatever I can to make that happen, Claire.”

And then she smiled – and his heart stuttered.

“And what about you, Jamie Fraser?” she asked, tipping back her glass. “What would make you happy?”

“To be recognized as a songwriter, not just a guitar player. I can manage things – not just work as a hired hand.”

“I don’t see you as a hired hand,” she said softly. Almost to herself.

“I’m very glad of it, Claire,” he replied, just as softly. Then stood. “Come on. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. May I walk you home?”

—

Somewhere in the quiet, dark hours of the night, when Jamie stared up at the paint peeling from his ceiling and listened to Ian’s snores across the room and the bum rifling through the bottles on the street below – the melody sprang, fully formed, into his mind.

He tore off his sheets like a madman, dashed to the bathroom, flipped on the light, and hastily scribbled in the small spiral notebook he kept under his pillow.

Yes – a good, solid chord progression. Rhythm guitars supporting a strong solo guitar, deeper notes allowing a beautiful soprano voice to just float to the top of the composition.

Intro – then verse – and soaring chorus – then another verse, another chorus. Then a bridge, and the chorus. Then a fade out.

He sat back on the closed lid of the toilet, finger tracing the chords on the page. Yes – this would be perfect.

The lyrics would come later. But for now, he had a song. A song for her.

—

Murtagh FitzGibbons arrived at the Bowery rehearsal space around eleven the next morning, not quite sure what to expect from his musical experiment.

After a ten-minute set comprised of three covers – Blondie, Mellencamp, and AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” – it was clear that Claire Beauchamp had found her voice as a bona fide rock and roll singer.

It was time to call up Joe Abernathy at Chrysalis Records.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted at [Imagine Claire & Jamie](http://imagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com/post/157739182475/we-live-for-love-the-studio-reverberated) on tumblr

The studio reverberated with the final echoes of Jamie’s guitar, Ian’s drums, and Willie’s bass.

 

Then two seconds of utter silence. Followed by Claire Beauchamp’s enthusiastic claps and cheers from the corner.

 

Hopefully the fifth take would be the charm.

 

Not a lot had been under his control since the whirlwind day two months before when Murtagh had proudly introduced them all to Joe Abernathy – and they signed a four-record deal with Chrysalis right on the spot.

 

First, the suits insisted that the band didn’t need a name – it had a frontwoman in Claire. So all their work would be done under her name.

 

Jamie had bristled – but when Ian had elbowed him in the back, decided to keep his mouth shut.

 

Then there were the songs. They already had a great selection of covers, plus some songs that had been kicking around Chrysalis for a while. Some were actually quite good, once he’d reworked the tuning and experimented on different vocals with Claire.

 

She was just a natural. It was truly astonishing how so much power – and force – and kick-ass attitude could come from such a tiny person who was so polite and polished in real life, but utterly transformed into a take-charge force of nature when she performed.

 

He’d long ago given his heart to her. She inspired him more than anyone – or anything – ever had. He had never worked so hard in any of his gigs before – because he’d never truly *cared* about the entire end product. Claire gave him so much space to grow – to learn about producing, to lead the musical arrangements, to give her advice on how to open up her voice – and he had just flowered as a result.

 

But the only way he could express his feelings for her was in his words – in his songs. In the chord progressions he scribbled on scrap pieces of paper and stuffed into his jeans – in the snatches of poetry he rolled over and over again in his mind when he rode the subway uptown from his crummy apartment to the shiny Midtown recording studio – in the ridiculous hearts he drew in the steamed-up mirror after he got out of the shower.

 

She was in the process of finding herself – building her own identify as Claire Beauchamp. Not Claire Randall – married to a medical student, singing in cabarets in upstate New York to prevent herself from being lonely. Not Claire – belting out show tunes and Linda Ronstadt and Judy Garland at weddings and parties and bar mitzvahs.

 

For God’s sake, they were in a band together. Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks had almost blown up Fleetwood Mac when they broke up. They still had to tour together. No way would Jamie even think of jeopardizing Claire’s dream – what she had sacrificed so much for.

 

So he wrote – and composed – and waited.

 

**I feel a passion growing // I know that love is only just one inch away from striking us**

 

And seethed – because the label wouldn’t even consider letting them record any of his originals.

 

To be sure – he had more than songs about Claire. Jamie had been writing since he joined his first band at sixteen. He wasn’t prolific, but he had a good catalogue of rollicking guitar-driven songs that would be absolutely magic with Claire’s voice.

 

He’d plead with the producer who had been assigned to their sessions – Rob MacNab – to at least let them record a demo. But MacNab was under strict orders from his superiors: to cut the record quickly, and cheaply, and with guaranteed hit songs by recognized songwriters.

 

Jamie Fraser may be a talented guitarist and arranger – but he certainly wasn’t recognized.

 

“How’d we do, Rob?”

 

Jamie blinked awake, turned briefly to enjoy Claire’s triumphant smile, and then squinted through the glass wall to the control room where Rob sat behind the massive console, chain-smoking.

 

“I think we got it, guys. Good work.”

 

The one compromise that Jamie and Rob had worked out was to record all the tracks live. No use in recording all the instruments separately and then futzing around with overdubs – not when it was the raw, live sound that Jamie knew would immediately appeal to people. And to his surprise, MacNab had agreed – plus, it would help cut down the production costs.

 

Nine tracks out of ten were now complete. Just one more, and their first record would officially be done.

 

Ian stood from behind his drum kit and stretched. Willie rolled his shoulders and hung up his bass on the stand he shared with Jamie.

 

Jamie set down his guitar and walked immediately over to Claire, who sipped Coke from a warm bottle.

 

“How you feeling? How’s your voice?”

 

She rolled her eyes. “I’m fine, Jamie. Really. It’s hard work, but it’s so worth it.”

 

God, that smile cut him straight to his heart.

 

“Think we can call it a day? I gotta get up and walk around.”

 

Jamie looked over at MacNab – laughing with one of the engineers behind the glass.

 

“Hey Rob – let’s just pick this up tomorrow?”

 

Rob scratched his balding head and nodded. “Yeah, sure. Come out and we can listen to the tape, if you want. Then we can call it a wrap.”

 

Ian and Willie slipped out of the studio to huddle behind Rob at the control board, watching him raise and lower just a few of the hundreds of dials.

 

“What are you thinking?”

 

Jamie turned back to Claire, still perched on one of her favorite stools. He’d gotten her to stop using them as a crutch – encouraging her to walk around while she sang – but she always retreated back to them when she was tired, or when something was bothering her.

 

Today she was dressed in a black sweater and jeans, her hair curling madly around her face. No makeup, as usual. Breathtaking.

 

He spoke the words without thinking.

 

“I want to show you something I’ve been writing. And I don’t care what Rob or Joe or Murtagh say – I want us to record it. I want *you* to sing it.”

 

Surely she had to feel this too – this pull between them. She had never made a move – and neither had he – despite all the nights they’d spent at her social club or at his hard rock bars, throwing back drinks and spilling their pasts to each other.

 

She wanted a partner – and he didn’t know he needed one. But that’s what they were – musical partners. Partners on this wild and crazy journey that would hopefully one day lead to some kind of stardom.

 

Claire looked at him for what felt like a long time, then tilted her head. Considering.

 

“Want to come over to my place? It’s more private – you can play your guitar, I mean.”

 

Oh God, she was blushing.

 

“I’d love that, Claire. Thank you.”

 

She shook her head. “No, Jamie. Thank *you*. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

 

“That’s not true, and you know it – ”

 

“Bullshit. It’s not, OK? If I hadn’t met you, I’d still be singing show tunes at The Broch. This is infinitely better.”

 

“Come on, you two! Let’s listen!” Rob’s voice thundered through the glass.

 

Impulsively, Jamie extended a hand to help Claire off her stool. Her surprised smile – and the look of sheer joy on her face – was everything.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted at [Imagine Claire & Jamie](http://imagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com/post/158195108278/we-live-for-love) on tumblr

It was a short ride on the 6 train to Canal Street – just steps from Claire’s fourth floor walk-up apartment on Mott Street.

“It’s not much,” she told him, voice echoing in the stairwell, laughing at how his guitar case bounced off the narrow walls. “But it’s been a sanctuary for me.”

“I didn’t realize you lived so close to the social club,” he replied, nodding a hello to the old, wizened woman who appeared at one of the doorways.

“Claire!” she exclaimed. “How are you? And who is *this*?”

Claire stooped to give the woman a quick hug. “Hi, Mrs. Fitz – this is Jamie. He’s the guitar player in my band.”

Mrs. Fitz raised one faded eyebrow. “Oh, is he? Well, Claire – you’ve certainly done well for yourself! Accomplishing your dreams, and meeting this nice-looking man…”

“We’re going to rehearse a bit – I hope it won’t bother you?” Jamie interrupted.

“Oh! No! I’ll be fine!”

Then she winked at Claire. “You have a good night, now!”

Claire took Jamie’s hand and pulled him up the final flight of stairs – not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to talk about it.

God, they *had* to talk about it. About whatever – this – was between them.

Jamie swallowed as Claire unlocked her door and pushed it open. The lyrics of the song – she was a smart woman. She would figure it out instantly.

And then what?

Claire flicked the lightswitch, revealing a small, dated, but very cozy apartment. The door opened to her living room – a couch, dining table, battered TV, and easy chair. A small kitchen curved off to the right – and what had to be her bedroom and bathroom off to the left.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked softly.

He licked his lips. “Um – no. No thanks. Where can I set up?”

He set down his guitar case and slipped out of his leather jacket, laying it gently on the couch.

“I’ll make us some tea – it helps relax my voice after a long day. And why don’t you get set up at the table? I won’t be long.”

She flitted into the kitchen and he heard her turn on the stove, fishing around in the cupboard.

He wasn’t a tea drinker – but he’d do anything for her.

As he sifted in his guitar case, his eyes darted around the apartment.

Posters of art adorned the walls – the Impressionists, mostly. Promotional posters from her favorite Broadway shows, too. And a bookshelf crammed with all kinds of books – musical scores, science fiction novels, cookbooks. With a few framed photographs.

Everything was small – compact. Comfortable.

He lay the three pieces of paper side by side. The sweat on his thumb smudged the notes he’d penciled in the margins.

And there she was, holding two steaming mugs, smiling at him.

She set the mugs in the middle of the table, pushing one over to him.

“Thanks.”

He cleared his throat.

“So – I’ve been writing for a while. All kinds of songs – rock songs, jazz songs, blues songs. But none of them are right for you, Claire. None are right for your voice – or for what the band is doing.”

She wrapped her hands around her mug, sipping her tea. Waiting.

“So I wrote this song for you, Claire. I – I’ve never shared it with anyone before. But I think it’s perfect for you. And I think we should show it to MacNab tomorrow, and I’ll be damned if he won’t let us record it.”

Her cheeks flushed – from the tea, or his words, he couldn’t say.

But he *could* start to play. So he clenched his fingers, settled his guitar on his knees, and played the song.

He didn’t need the papers spread out in front of him – for he had played the song so many times already.

It was raw, to be sure. Would be very different when they played with the band, compared to the acoustic guitar he was using. And his voice was more than an octave below hers.

But it would work.

Eight bars of intro – then he began to sang.

_Your love’s contagious // One kiss is dangerous_

_But I have more to risk // Than you to lose_

_I feel a passion growing_

_I know that love is only just one inch away from striking us_

His voice rose into the chorus – the chorus he knew she would sing so beautifully.

_We live for love_

_We live for love_

_We live for love_

_We live for love_

Jamie’s eyes bore into Claire’s. She had set down her tea – one hand covering her mouth, the other resting on her heart.

Two more bars – then the next verse.

_When we get tired // And watch the summer fade away_

_Will you think of romance? // What will we do?_

_Is there a place where we can go?_

_Where time stands still for those who know?_

_Till eternity we’ll fulfill our desires_

Then the chorus again. And Claire – beautiful, strong, courageous Claire – began singing in harmony with him.

_We live for love_

_We live for love_

_We live for love_

_We live for love_

He didn’t have a third verse – couldn’t think of how to continue.

Not when she was singing with him – singing the words he had written for her.

He strummed his guitar, hoping he hadn’t made a big mistake, watching her.

Hoping with every fiber in his being that he hadn’t screwed up.

So finally he ended – plucking all six strings with a flourish.

And for an eternity she stared at him – not moving.

Then – slowly, dreamlike – she stood, and walked over to him. Reached out one hand to caress his cheek. He leaned into the palm of her hand, closing his eyes.

And she bent to kiss him.

—

Sometime later, Claire woke, untangled herself from Jamie’s arms, slipped his t-shirt over her bare shoulders, and staggered to the bathroom.

Quickly she fumbled for the lipstick on the sink, scribbling on the mirror.

Jamie sleepily padded in a few minutes later, yawning, wrapping his arms around her middle and pulling her to nestle against him, squinting at the mirror.

“I wrote the third verse,” she said softly, gasping a bit as he sucked on her neck.

“Mm?” he asked, grinding his pelvis against the small of her back. “Read it to me?”

She sighed, so happy.

_I never planned to win the race_

_But you convinced me face to face_

_There was never a chance of losing at all_

“Never a chance, hmm?” he murmured in her ear.

“Never.” She turned in his arms – taking in his tousled hair and the stubble on his chin.

This man was perfection – in every way.

“There was never a chance of us not ending up right here, right now. Together.”

He smiled. His heart raced under her fingertips as he bent down for a long, slow, sweet kiss.

“I love you, Claire.” He framed her face in his hands, eyes boring into hers. “I love you. I pledge myself to you. I will be whatever you need. I will be by your side always.”

“Even when I want to kick your ass, and yell and scream at you?” she teased.

“Even then. Especially then.”

She lifted her arms – and he helped her out of his t-shirt. She jumped into his arms – and clung to him as he walked them back to bed, kissing madly all the way.

—

Rob MacNab looked to Murtagh FitzGibbons and Joe Abernathy.

Jamie and Claire took a small bow, exhilarated from their first performance of “We Live For Love.”

The three older men nodded to each other – and clapped.

They finally had a bona fide hit for their bona fide rock and roll singer.

Ian and Willie whooped with joy.

And Claire – not caring – leaned over to kiss Jamie’s smile.

—

“We Live For Love” was the debut single – and raced up the charts to become the fastest-selling number one record of 1981.

They toured the northeast – and then the country – and then the world.

The album produced hit after hit after hit.

They played sold-out crowds, with thousands of men and women screaming and cheering for them. Singing with them.

Especially the final song in their set every night – the one that Jamie always introduced with the same words: “You know what this song is – and it’s a favorite of ours, because it’s the first I wrote for her.”

Her – Claire Fraser.

His muse – his light.

His wife.

* * *

[Pat Benatar - We Live For Love](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DxNT8XkVoOKE&t=ZWFmMTVmNzJhY2JhYTA0OTg4N2FkZWEzOGRjNDQ0MzU1Y2RmNzA2YixMNHNKTGxqRA%3D%3D&b=t%3A3P1iDiJS-o_zACFmLNnnBQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fimagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F158195108278%2Fwe-live-for-love&m=1). The first song written for her by her guitarist - and later husband - Neil Giraldo. They’ve been married since 1982. This story is based on their story.


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